To you this word is, you whose lives are lit
By nothing fair, to whom each daybreak brings
One loveless labour of the hands, where clings
To soul and body smoke and grime and grit.
Also to them this word, if any sit
Easeful, secure, fulfilled with all good things,
And say of far-off alien travailings,
'Where are they?' and of hunger, 'What is it?'
Behold how in an ancient heart rose up
This vision of the wise, kind god, who view'd
Naked and poor, in bondage of blind pain,
Man's tremulous brood, nor longer would retain
His blissful seat, but drank a bitter cup,
Having compassion on the multitude.
E. R. B.
